As I sit poised upon a perch I wonder to myself how do these words come
......from where?
How does my hand remember how to hit the keys just right?
What part of my brain is working
What part of me is aware of what I am doing...for it certainly is not me
the me that I understand with absolute resolve
The me that I have been taught is me
Where does this stream begin
where does it cross over to that path of sea-ness
when do I become it
when it, me?
How does the hand know to stitch, or sew, or chop, or fluff, or drive a car, a plane
this is all a bit insane.
and yes, it's true, I've had some rum, and quite a bit of fun
but it is only lubricant for that which is different,
a stream, a thought a moment frozen in that illusion of time
that space of connectedness
that is us
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